


Two Friends on a Perfect Day

by mango_boba



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Anxiety, Bodyswap, Family Drama, Family Issues, Former One Shot, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Two Shot, Very brief but still, probably, tw: mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-21 02:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mango_boba/pseuds/mango_boba
Summary: 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘌𝘷𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯,𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺: 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘴𝘰-𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘡𝘰𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸-𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯?𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙧 𝙈𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙮?_________A bodyswap fic.*Now updated with Connor's perspective. :)





	1. Trees Don't Wear Black Polish

When Evan Hansen woke up from his sleep, the first thing that came up in his mind was how, no matter how reassuring his mom and Dr. Sherman  were to him, his first day of school was going to be an absolute nightmare for two main reasons: one being that he would have to be expected to talk to random strangers every weekday, and two being all kinds of horrifying, awful moments that will inevitably happen the moment he enters the school building as a senior. With social anxiety entering the fray.

And after that, his mind would follow up with further anxiety-driven thoughts while he stares blankly at his dull light green ceiling for a couple minutes, 5 minutes, an hour before he hears Mom call out to him and probably tell him off about how he didn’t eat anything last night. It was all expected, almost mundane in a manner that seemed asinine like his typical tics and awful stutters and that undesirable trait of his to have endless beads of sweat accumulate from the skin pores in his hands within seconds.

What he DIDN’T expect, however, was an unfamiliar grey ceiling greeting him followed by a pungent odor that reminded Evan of skunk. His visage contorting in grimace at the smell, the teen abruptly sat upright from bed and looked around, who felt his heart drop at the unfamiliarity of the room. His eyes darted around frantically to see that the room was in a state of a chaotic mess; posters that decorated the room were either rolled up in a corner or threatening to fall down unhinged, various papers and items were scattered everywhere from the unfamiliar study desk and on top of the dresser, opened plastic Ziploc bags that contained what appeared to be little green nuggets (that he then realized was weed, and were responsible for the skunk-like smell that remained in the air) and there was a set of nothing but black hoodies on one row of the clothing rack accompanied with several other but also black or dark colored clothing in another.

  
“Where am I?” Evan wondered, who froze upon hearing the sound of the… his voice. He looked around again to see if there was another person in the room, but there wasn’t. Was that HIS voice? He didn’t sound like himself at all! Feeling his heartbeat pick up the pace, the panicked male rushed out of bed-

And promptly stumbled and fell on the floor, for he had tripped over a prescription bottle that rolled over innocently by his left arm. His left arm, which lacked the white arm cast but was littered with both old and new scars from the forearm to the wrist area.

Producing a surprised shriek, Evan quickly got up from the room flooring--a carpet flooring in a shade of grey that was a little lighter from the room’s walls, which was distinct from Evan’s hard-surface flooring of wood--but paused to examine the compact prescription bottle. He picked it up and turned it over to see the label, taking notice of the layer of black nail polish that coated his fingernails as he did so.

_ ‘_ _ CYNTHIA MURPHY _

_ 30 ALPRAZOLAM 2MG TABLETS’ _

“Cynthia… Murphy?” He could feel a spark of realization run through him, like some kind of awful, raw feeling tearing him up from the inside. Somewhat like the same feeling he gets when he’s tasked with having to call a restaurant that accepts delivery orders, (and not doing even that in the end, because he’s pathetic and weak and the person unlucky enough to pick up on the other end doesn’t need to go through that) but also not because he doesn’t remember painting his nails black nor the skunk-like odor that lingered in the air. 

Rushing over to the cracked body mirror that laid conveniently in the corner of the room, Evan could only look on in shock as he stared at the image before him: long, unkempt brown hair that was a shade darker than his own, a black crew neck shirt covered by a black denim jacket, and a pair of dark jeans. Regarding these clues, one thing was made clear.

He was not Evan Hansen. No, instead, he was Connor Murphy.

“CONNOR! You’re going to be late for school! Hurry and get ready with your sister!”

As if on cue, there was a bang from the door on his left that was loud enough to startle the teen from his thoughts. Followed by a series of obnoxious knocking. Truth be told, it was quite the terrifying experience for Evan. He froze in place as whoever-it-was continued to knock loudly. Apparently that wasn’t the right choice to make, as the person on the other side of the door let out a frustrated sigh to indicate their annoyance.

“Connor, I swear to god I’m going to kick down the damn door if you don’t open it.” It was a miracle for him to move his stiff legs, turn the doorknob, and NOT trip over his own legs to meet the other person.

_ “Remember, Evan,” Dr. Sherman started to say, clicking the end of his pen in a way that the teen couldn’t help but stare at before finally tuning in to whatever the therapist wanted to say, “It may seem scary, daunting perhaps, but those small steps to get out of the usual comfort zone will be worth it. Pizza delivery, friendly neighbor, whoever it is: all it takes is to go up to that door and see the other side. And when that happens, just be yourself.” _

It was Zoe.

And then he froze for real, because oh god, is this seriously happening? This could just be a dream, right, but why would he ever dream of being Connor Murphy?  _ Isn’t that just weird? _

“The weird one here is you, dumbass.” Zoe said blankly, looking annoyed at ‘Connor’. “I don’t want to miss my first day just ‘cause you’re high.” He didn’t mean to say that out loud. He felt bad, and, jesus, he didn’t mean to tell her that—

“I’m not uh, saying that you’re weird, I was just thinking to myself but I guess I just blurted it out and I didn’t mean to but it’s weird because I’m not Connor.” A bunch of word vomit practically erupted from his mouth as a result of him thinking of a kajillion words per millisecond and trying to form a coherent sentence simultaneously. His attempt of verbal communication only earned a confused glare from Zoe as she decided to take that as her cue to leave, muttering something about braindead weed talks.

_ Dear Evan Hansen, _

_ _

_ Today’s going to be a weird day. And here’s why: because today, you’re not you, which _

_means you can’t be yourself, because you’re not yourself, meaning you can’t be true to _

_yourself because once again you’re NOT yourself so- _

_and also just completely screwed up with your chance with Zoe Murphy and feel like- _

_like your eyes are going to be just as sweaty as your hands right now- _

_ but still feel really confused because why are you her brother right now then? _

_ ** Why are you Connor Murphy? ** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been rotting in my Google drive folder for a while now, so I decided to dump this most-likely a oneshot fic here. I decided to actually finish this chapter as a way to get back on my writing mojo again. this probably has broken formatting on mobile whoops


	2. pseudo weed dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the other side of the body swap. i figured i might as well give you guys connor's perspective to the whole thing to make it seem more 'complete'. thank you for those who gave kudos, commented, bookmarked, and to those who took a moment to read this story. :)
> 
> i also updated the tags. i added two shot as a tag, but honestly if i'm motivated enough to continue with this story (perhaps with the 1st creative writing class i'm taking this quarter?), i might just go all in then. and if i ever do, i just want to address this first:
> 
> i do not intend to make this a treebros (connor x evan) fic. my main focus, originally, was to make this a friendship fic. this body swap is what forces them to be together, to work together and manage while being in bodies that are not their own. sorry if this is of any issue to anyone. i have no hate towards the ship!

About five minutes ago, one previously high-as-fuck Connor Murphy was sure that this was one of his weirdest weed dreams yet when he saw a random woman in her forties enter the room after gently knocking on the door a couple of times, furrowed eyebrows in place as she looked at him with genuine concern. She hesitated to speak to the other at first, a small frown formed in her lips in a way that reminded him of his own mother when she wanted to communicate with him beyond useless shit like “How was your day? Do you want to eat anything in particular?” or a half-assedly scolding for doing _ stupid shit in general_, _ but she doesn’t go any further than that because he’s no-good piece of shit son who won’t listen anyways _ , but it went away in the blink of an eye and was replaced with a small smile.  
  


“Morning, honey! Got a good night’s rest, huh?” She said cheerfully, to which at that point Connor realized that he NEVER gets hyper-realistic dreams like these when he’s high. Only when he stops for a while. And he definitely remembers using some of his stash last night, or more like two o’clock in the morning, so he definitely _ fucking _ knows for a fact that _ he should be feeling any sort of hangover by now, yet here the FUCK he is, not feeling anything like that in the least. _  
  


Despite figuring out that this was, in fact, not some intense real_ -LIKE _ dream courtesy of marijuana, Connor Murphy snapped out of a now-pseudo weed daze and simply nodded stiffly in response. Like a _ liar _ . Apparently, that was more than enough for the unfamiliar woman to stare at him for a moment before sitting down by his side, on his--  
  


A bed that wasn’t even his. “I know you didn’t eat at all last night.” She finally continued after a brief moment of silence, exhaling a small sigh as she fumbled with something in her hands. A twenty dollar bill. “I know it’s tough, Evan, but you need to be able to order food for yourself when I’m not home. You don’t even need to talk to anyone on the phone anymore, because I know you don’t like talking on the phone. Most places can take online deliveries now.”  
  


_ Evan? _ He wondered in the back of his mind, but for some reason he couldn’t speak up for himself at the time. Maybe it was the way she earnestly looked at him, how she REALLY looked at him, right in the eyes. 

<strike>(he saw a familiar exhaustion in those eyes. but unlike the others, the pair of eyes that gazed upon his own held a tinge of hopefulness that seemed to pierce through his own, of which were tired in their own way.)</strike>

Not even his own mother, let alone his father, would make solid eye contact with him for more than eight seconds before turning away angrily, shamefully like he’s their very own family disgrace. Unless one of them was berating him.  
  


_ “Jesus Christ, Connor,” His father would start off angrily, bent out of shape once again as he inspected his room’s messy surroundings then at his son. His awful, insane, flawed son that they are just unfortunately burdened with. A freak. A psycho. “Would you give it a GODDAMN REST ALREADY?! I’ve had enough of you constantly shouting at your mother and sister, at US when yo-” _   
  


Hilarious. He feels his anger boil, but he keeps it cool for now. For now.  
  


“...—een writing those letters to yourself? ‘Dear Evan Hansen, this is going to be a good day and here’s why.’” 

“Yes.” was all he said, quietly, once he was brought back from his thoughts. Even though he wasn’t really sure what exactly he agreed to, because he sure as hell wasn’t listening. He assumed it was because this was his usual routine when he wanted someone, anyone, to leave him alone, saying yes or whatever would keep them off his back, _ but unlike the previous instances this was a random lady calling him a name that wasn’t his. _

“That’s great, honey. I just don’t want another year of you sitting at home on your computer every Friday night, telling me you have no friends. We just need an optimistic outlook on things, okay? This year’s a new start. Let’s make the best out of it. Hey, I know: you can go around today and ask the other kids to sign your cast, how about that?”

“My cast?” _ Oh shit, what the hell? His voice doesn’t sound like that. How is he not going crazy from this already? He already knows it’s not just the weed anymore. _ He glances briefly at the white cast that he apparently has in his left arm, then at the woman, then at the mirror he barely spots at the bathroom outside of the room. One way to find out. 

“Yeah, it’s one way to get to know people and maybe even make a few pals right? You’re going to do great, I just know it.” Pressure. Expectations. The last couple of things he needs right now.

“Right, yeah, I’ll get on that. Gotta go to the bathroom.” He said hastily, getting up from the bed and going straight towards the bathroom. And closing it to have some privacy to himself as he stares at the reflective surface in utter shock. A shorter teen sporting short light-brown hair, wearing a blue striped polo and a pair of khakis mirrors the same expression at him, mouth gaping. With a white, blank cast wrapped around the right (actually his left) arm.

“What the fuck?” Connor mutters, clearly in disbelief at his reflection. The shorter male mutters the same thing, but only one voice belonged to both of them. 

“_Your breakfast is ready downstairs, Evan! Just get ready so I can drop you off at school!” _ The woman alerts him somewhere downstairs, presumably to get ready. He doesn’t bother to come up with a response this time, glaring at the glass in vexation.

“Evan Hansen,” He simply says, gazing at the mirror as if to study his features closely. “I guess that’s your name.” Something in his gut tells him that he’s gonna be the first clue to how he ended up like this. Now’s just the matter of how he’ll be able to find this guy when he’s literally THE fucking guy. 

_ "Evan? You’re going to be late if you don’t eat soon!” _

Screw it. He’ll figure it out on the way there.


End file.
